Witch Doctor
by yuugata no baka
Summary: Dean needs to dull the pain, and Cas knows how to do it. "The End"-verse, Dean/Cas. One-shot


Cas was something of the unconventional medicine man of the camp. That is, he knew what mixture to provide for what ailed you, medical or not. As uneasy as he still was with human emotional afflictions, he was a quick study, and after years of witnessing nearly every emotional breakdown possible, he had come to know the signs of most particular mental anguish. And since he couldn't heal physical wounds anymore, this was the closest thing he had to a duty at camp. That, and handling an M16.

He knew the difference between wanting to forget for the night and wanting to forget forever. He knew there was a difference in the pain of a victim of a beating, and that of the man who put him (or her) there. No matter the ailment, he would find a way to arrange a solution – most often chemical, always temporary, and quite unlicensed. A girl had mentioned to him once through a mouthful of tears that he was more like a priest than a doctor, hearing all of their sins and providing the proper solace. Cas had replied with a weak smile and tipped her head back, coaxing a collection of pills down her throat.

Dean never partook in his curative services – not the chemical ones, anyway. Drinking was one thing, but then there was _Cas' type _of drugs. They were not meant for this world, Dean postulated at large in the presence of his followers, and besides that, he wanted to stay fairly lucid just in case a pack of zombies ended up lumbering into his camp. So one night when Dean entered his cabin and looked Cas unblinkingly in the eyes, a pathetic and ruined expression on his normally charming face, the Mortal Angel knew there was something seriously wrong.

Castiel ushered the remains of his half-conscious group of followers out of the cabin, before drawing close to Dean, who'd settled on the floor, leaning helplessly against the wall. He didn't have to say a word and Castiel knew what was ailing him – a simple sad look between them spoke the answers.

Cas reached into one of the many pockets of his coat, took out a group of tiny pills, then reached into an opposing flap, pulled out a small bottle, and tipped some powder out of it into his dry palm. He stuffed the bottle away, holding the mixture in his hands, not looking at it, eyes ever on Dean, who looked at best feverish, at worst, damned. The hunter's head rolled back against the wall, tears were welling up behind his eyes.

Castiel reached out with his other hand and stroked back Dean's hair, petting his head gently, seeing no reaction but a slow shuttering of his eyelids. He breathed slow and low, sweat on his brow. Cas didn't have to read the signs collected on his clothes to know what he'd been up to – dirt on the edges of his coat, sweat and blood in his hair – not uncommon sights. Grass stains on his knees, like a child. Cas smoothed a hand softly along his scalp, silently, staring concernedly at him.

Cas coaxed the mixture towards Dean's mouth in silence, kindly tipping back his head to administer the medicine. Dean hesitated, swallowing back a lump in his throat, looking imploringly at Cas, who patiently insisted. He watched as Dean opened his mouth to take the drugs down, tasting them, hesitant to swallow. Cas produced a bottle of water from another pocket and fed Dean a swig, observing as he swallowed the pills down.

The angel was nearly in his lap at this proximity, on his knees in front of the fearless leader, boxing him in against the wall where he'd set himself. Never taking his eyes off of him, Cas reached back into his coat and made himself up the same mixture he'd offered Dean, and with a serious expression on his face, tipped the pills back and swallowed them dry.

Cool air swelled between the two of them from a broken window, and Cas leaned closer, resting his forehead against Dean's, placing a hand on his shoulder and gripping tight. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the drugs hit him first; it was with a burning, which mellowed out into a pulsing, low simmer that spread across his stomach and deep in his abdomen. The glow settled low inside him and he waited for the hit to reach Dean, which did when he signaled with a sharp intake of breath.

"What did you give me?" Dean accused weakly, panting softly, and Cas felt a hand clutching tightly at the front of his coat. He didn't answer, just breathed through the drug's establishment in his system, coaxing Dean to do the same by gently gripping his shoulder. The comforting gesture he'd learned from Dean; he could still remember the feel through his new vessel's body of the man's warm hand patting him on the back, gently gripping his shoulder before withdrawing. That was many years ago now, when Dean's hands still had warmth and gentleness in them, before they'd become only weapons.

Once the drug had settled in him, the familiar heat of the tincture grinding into his very ribs, Cas leaned in to nurse Dean through it, kissing his forehead and stroking his hair. They'd been in this position more than once, when the weight of Dean's insane duty fell on him all at once, broken over him like a wave made of sand, sticking to him, dragging him down. He would fall against a wall, slump heavily into a chair, or crash onto Castiel's bed, and put his hands out weakly, defencelessly, like a child reaching for his mother. Castiel knew that without his brother, he was the closest person to Dean on this wrecked earth, and while he thought the duty should fill him with pride, he could only ever feel a panicked sadness as he emptied the room of any bystanders and rushed to the leader's side to catch him when he fell.

He would lean close and pet Dean's hair, rub his back and listen to the man spill his heart in a series of "I'm sorry"s and "I just couldn't"s and "it's all my fault"s. Infrequently the Mortal Angel would counter with hushed, gruff "I know"s and "it's okay"s and every other lie he could pull from his years of studying the human recourse known as _comfort_. He didn't like seeing Dean like this, though he found it more-or-less easy to lean against him and sway while his Fearless Leader sniveled and cried wet into his neck.

This was the first time they'd taken drugs, though. Dean was clearly having trouble getting used to it, his eyes screwed shut while he tried to stay upright under the mixture's powerful influence. Dean was right, the drugs weren't meant for this world, they were a mixture of celestial acids and bases, of divine tinctures stolen from heaven's knowledge after Castiel fell. He knew how to distill chemicals yet unknown to humankind, had the ability to sculpt new elements beyond the imagining of most earth-dwellers.

They huddled against the wall for what seemed like hours, but was probably closer to minutes – Castiel knew the uptake time of all of his cures – until Dean's breathing appeared to level out, his heartbeat still racing, grinding in his ears, and he slumped against the wooden posts behind him. Cas gave a sigh of relief and slowly moved to get up and sit at Dean's side, but he felt a hand gripping his wrist, surprisingly tight, and hold him still.

Castiel looked up into Dean's eyes, the deep green throbbing with sadness, his expression helplessly longing. The Mortal Angel countered with his own sky-bright blue hues, staring him down, unblinkingly. He fought two simultaneous instincts to flee and to reach forward and take Dean into his arms, but the other man decided for him, tugging firmly on his arm until he brought Castiel's lips to his.

They kissed for the first time in what seemed like years, Castiel held in place by Dean's strength; he was still unused to how much more physically powerful Dean was than him as a mortal, since when they first met, even locked in his vessel, he would've been able to lift the man with one arm. He felt Dean's tongue press eagerly between his lips, nudging inside to claim the space between his teeth. Cas met him with his own tongue, sealing their mouths together.

When they separated, the fact that Castiel wasn't looking him in the eyes made Dean uneasy, which was reflected in his shaky voice, "Cas, I…"

The angel cut him off with a shake of his head. Even the most dedicated priest tires; he didn't want to hear any confessions, he heard them all already, read them in Dean's body language, in his green eyes, in his beautiful features, he didn't want to hear them in words. Castiel leaned back temporarily to work his pants off and open Dean's, reaching eagerly for his half-ready cock, noting his arousal with the most minor of surprise. It had been a while since they'd done this. Given that for a year or so there weren't two nights in a row passed without them having sex, Castiel shivering inside his mortal body, Dean's heat radiating enough to envelope the both of them.

It must've been the effect of the drugs lulling the ever-hunter into a state of obedient arousal, because Castiel knew he wouldn't let this happen normally, he would never sit back in the angel's arms and let himself be carried away. Dean leaned forward to brush his lips on Cas' again, but Cas pulled away, he had work to do, so Dean landed on his chin instead, nuzzling underneath it, stubble rasping the length of his nose. He let his eyes close softly as Cas fondled him, both hands on his cock, working him to readiness. Cas' restraint was almost medical; this was a treatment after all, not a passionate embrace.

Castiel slid off his own pants, an easy task as the thin linen layer was the only one he was wearing, secured to his hips by a meagre drawstring, which he released with one hand and slid the garment over his thighs. He rose up on his knees, bringing his cock near to Dean's chin and his hand around to his own backside, gingerly prodding the hole while Dean placed drugged kisses on his sex.

Castiel was ready; admittedly he'd spent the past few weeks neck-deepin _the act_, exotic and domestic and good old-fashioned drug-flooded frottage, fucking and sucking whomever would give him the time, which in this tragic economy turned out to be just about everyone. When one of his woman partners pressed a finger (or two) inside him he freely admitted with a cry to the pleasurable ache of being overpowered, his consciousness freed by the strength of someone else's intrusion into his body. He wouldn't let anyone other than Dean go any further inside him than that, for reasons unknown to him at this hour. This night he didn't even bother to stretch his hole, breathing deep and lowering himself over Dean's erection as easily and procedurally as if he was meant to be there.

"_Cas…!_"

Dean gave a sharp cry and the angel pulled his head to his chest, wrapping his arms around him and shushing him gently. Part of Cas knew he shouldn't be doing this, no matter the excuses he might make for the meaningless sex in which he now so often indulged, he knew when too much was _too _much, even from his limited human perspective. But he ignored all of the moral instincts which strangely had become stronger when he became human and buried his kisses in Dean's hair.

"Seriously, what did you give me?" Dean breathed, voice fluctuating, rising and then sinking back with his shallow breath. Cas still didn't answer, but sunk himself down over Dean's thick hardness and nested firmly in his lap, wincing unnoticeably from the burn inside, his arms still linked around the man's shoulders.

He nudged Dean's nose with his own, giving a few experimental rolls of his hips, riding back deep and flicking forward at the front; Dean responded with a long groan. "Just stay with me tonight, alright?"

In his drugged-up state Dean seemed to welcome anything, so he nodded hysterically, reaching forward to seize Cas' hips and drag him down deeper, but the angel caught him by the wrists. He squeezed tight, holding Dean's hands to his hips, but not letting him affect his own movement.

Cas rocked slowly; in this position they couldn't get any more than a slight resistance, their sex tantric, long, drawn-out. He began to see the medication's lights behind his eyes; he always saw colourless lines, branching off into endless spokes of prickly white. He wondered briefly what images the chemical drew in Dean's mind, but when he looked into the man's eyes, it appeared he saw only _Cas_.

"Why do you do this to me?" Dean accused, swallowing dryly, glaring at the angel in his lap. Even while his eyes narrowed in what was a mix of anger and exhaustion, he slid his hands up Cas' back, cradling him, which the angel decided to allow.

There it was. The blame. He was used to being the brunt of Dean's blame, since the moment he'd set foot on this earth Dean was finding ways to fault him for his pains. Some of it he deserved, and on rare occasions he bit back with accusations of his own, for good measure, it felt, and little more. He wasn't up to faulting Dean for anything. Even when, on a night not long after they'd come to the camp, his drunken stupor devolved him into a drudging beast, and from his mouth came an "_I should've killed you when I had the chance_," Castiel simply rose, drew so close to him their noses almost touched, and replied, "_You still can_."

Castiel sighed at Dean, running a hand down the back of his neck, feeling Dean's tender hands on his spine, waiting for the moment where they snapped it. "What're you talking about? You're the one who won't even stay the night."

Castiel wondered briefly if the disappointment he read in Dean's eyes was a reflection of his own guilty conscience, realizing now that he wasn't sure whom he was treating this night. He sat forward on his knees, giving himself more leverage to thrust, and though it was more tiring, he was able to work the two of them to a froth, their panting breaths dissipating so quickly in the open air it was as though they never came out at all, Dean tossing his head back and forth like a dog in heat, moaning readily.

Cas kept riding him, rising up and letting Dean slip almost completely out of him, then falling back heavily onto his lap, swallowing him entirely, wincing, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. His pace quickened, his thrusts shallower, more desperate, until he was hating himself for being so very _desperate_, when Dean suddenly caught his hips and him off guard, pulling him down _so _hard and plunging deep into him, releasing hotly into his body.

Castiel gasped, tipping his head back, gritting his teeth in a wordless curse towards the sky, pained with the sensation of being_ full_, until with a few sharp thrusts against Dean's stomach, he came as well, groaning like he'd been stabbed. They sat like that, Dean's hands digging finger-shaped bruises into his hips and his cock burning a space in his insides, Cas reluctant to go because that would bring the awkwardness that followed this kind of sex, but suddenly quite eager to separate from the man.

With a shudder that accompanied the blood rushing back to his head, Castiel stood, shakily, regretting quite quickly what he'd done. The physical pain was one thing, but the emotional ruin he'd put Dean in he was sure hadn't helped him at all.

He ventured into the hall and found a basin of cold water, dipped a close-by rag into it and cleaned himself off everywhere that it counted, before returning to Dean, and doing the same for him. The man looked exhausted, pathetic, really, his shame exposed to the world, like he didn't give a care anymore. Castiel sighed heavily again and pulled on Dean's arm until he stood up, and they went to the next room where the angel's bed was.

They lay on top of the covers, nearly fully clothed, warmed by sex and anger, the drugs still swimming inside them, populating their minds with conflicting nonsense images. For a long time they weren't touching, until Dean moved over and lay his head on Cas' chest, which surprised the former divinity, though he reached over and wrapped his arm across Dean's shoulders in kind.

"Why do you follow me?" Dean asked suddenly, sincerity evidently choked out of him by the wayward chemicals in his veins.

Cas' narrow chest rose and sank with one deep breath while he considered his answer. He'd salvaged his leader from one nervous breakdown tonight; he felt neither need nor desire to keep coddling him. "I'm not the only one. Risa – despite how you treat her; there's Chuck, Jager, Mulligan–"

"But they're..." Dean shook his head; Cas felt the movement against his breast.

"Stupid?" Cas offered dryly.

"They don't get it," the reluctant leader replied restlessly. "They don't see it. They don't _see _where this is headed. You see it, don't you? That there's no way out of this?" Dean asked. _Stop me_, he was pleading silently.

_I'm not capable of that_, came the reply. "I don't know what you're talking about." He would use every tool the man himself had taught him, each apparatus in the Dean Winchester toolkit – deflect, deny, repent, decry.

"If I turn," Dean began again, swallowing. Cas shut his eyes against it as though that would save him having to hear Dean's delirious hypotheticals. "What would you do?"

Cas replied quickly, the_ lie_ coming out as smoothly as if it were oiled. "I would destroy you, immediately."

He felt the muscles in Dean's neck move. "And then?"

"I would take over The Camp, and live out as long as I can, with as many survivors as we can handle," he lied again. He'd lied to Dean before, with unfavourable consequences, but he told himself he would do it again and again if it was for Dean's sake. Because everyone at the camp pretty much understood that if their current leader died, Castiel would be the_ last_ in line to take the wheel. The real answer? He would probably fall dead right then and there.

"I don't wanna go to Hell, or Heaven. I just want it to _end_, Cas, okay? I just want it to end," Dean pleaded, as though it would help.

Castiel looked the man over, saw the way his eyelashes flickered as he fell into sleep, the way his heart rose as he breathed, beating the way it always had.

"I'll see what I can arrange."

* * *

Wow. That sex scene was the opposite of sexy. Did you even catch it? It was like, anti-sex.


End file.
